


Drabbles

by Nikoshinigami



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Character Death, Humor, M/M, Parentlock, Post Reichenbach, Pre-Slash, Retirementlock, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-01-26 23:05:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 12,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1705865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nikoshinigami/pseuds/Nikoshinigami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Little prompt fills.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Strawberries

**Author's Note:**

> Want to suggest something for me to write? Send me an [ask](http://nikoford.tumblr.com/ask).

Sherlock hated waiting for the strawberries to ripen. The first white teardrops were best completely ignored and forgotten least he find himself checking them anxiously throughout the day as though somehow magic had bestowed upon them the ruby ripeness of summer. They blended in with their clean straw bedding with promises to make better their display among the well-attended greenery. They took time—everything in the garden took time—but the strawberries were his personal favorites of the otherwise flowering beds.

John liked strawberries on his rolled oats mixed with the honey from their busy bee boxes. Sherlock enjoyed them layered on jam and toast or, as they picked them, placed against his lips between the fingers of the other man. They were sweeter then. Somehow. Run under the sprinkle from the watering can, the strawberries John bid him to taste as they harvested were always the best of their yield. Unlike the flowers that served to feed the bees that swam in the air around them, the little fruit bushels were for their delight alone—Sherlock and John’s. Passerbys could see the yellow blossoms and full lilac blooms but they could never taste the rich desserts in the small plot of land of their cottage abode.

Watching the white, pimpled fruit, Sherlock could image where their knees would rest on the soil as they held back the green leaves to better spy the harvest below. They’d kneel close, almost touching, but their shadows would be shared. Sherlock’s hands would be gloved and protected, John’s would be bare and nimbly pluck through the straw for them both. There would be a cloth at the bottom of the pruning basket to keep the berries safe from the woven wood and they’d take their time, moving from plant to plant, not leaving a single rosy bud for the insects that were otherwise welcome to their share.

And just when Sherlock had had enough, just as he had become bored of the process and wanted to move on and continue tending to the rest of their garden before the day flowed too quickly towards noon, John would pick the most perfect strawberry from their basket, rinse it gently, and hold it against Sherlock’s lips to taste as he did every time and every season. Sherlock would take the most perfect bite of the ripened flesh, letting the sweet flavor awaken his tongue, then watch John finish it off around the spiky, green top as they shared in the singular expression of joint efforts and rewards.

“Not bad,” John would say, because he always said it after the first sweet swallow. And after the kiss that was never far behind he’d whisper, “Even better.”

Sherlock hoped the strawberries didn’t take their time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggested by [khorazir](http://khorazir.tumblr.com/). Originally posted [here](http://nikoford.tumblr.com/post/87115527202/prompt-strawberries)


	2. The Pyre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt : Inside John Watson's mind, inside the Guy Fox pyre (S3E1).

This wasn’t the way it was supposed to go. Was the universe trying to tell him something? He’d waited, hesitated, stood unsure on the pavement with every intention to step inside but too cautious to commit—story of his life—only to have the choice made for him. Random abduction? Not likely. As Sherlock would say, the universe is rarely so lazy. It wasn’t coincidence that said John Watson should once again be abducted from the pavement outside 221B. It had happened before and the target, he feared, was the same. No one took John Watson because they had issue with him, they took him because of Sherlock. Which meant Sherlock was in danger, again—story of _his_ life—and John was once again bait. 

It was wrong to feel pleased. He’d have to work on that later—if later ever happened. He was with Mary now. Abductions and ‘against the rest of the world’ type scenarios weren’t a part of that life. His life. Two years and you’d think he’d be over the excitement and disappointment that existed in finding himself in danger once again, Sherlock to blame, and no heads up given as to his potential as target. Maybe had they spoken that night instead of hopped place to place in disjointed conversations punctuated in blood he might have known. Still Sherlock’s fault—who in their right mind thought it was a good idea to dress as a French waiter to announce they had faked their suicide years past? Sherlock was laughing at him, mocking every moment of strangled grief with that stupid mustache and accent. What was he supposed to do? Hug him? Kiss him? Be grateful that the single most important person in his life was back and just as heartless as John had ever feared him to be? No. No, it wasn’t going to be like that. And the single fact that John knew he couldn’t possibly be this cruel, that there most certainly had to be a good explanation, was what had put him on the pavement in the first place. There wouldn’t be an audience this time. There wouldn’t be distractions like engagement rings and almost fiancés and an all-consuming elation chained in disillusionment and pain. Now there wouldn’t be anything. He’d waited too long. Like a time machine, he’d simply been brought back to a place that existed two years ago where there was no Sherlock Holmes without John Watson and the two were synonymous to foes. Sherlock’s enemies were John’s enemies and Sherlock’s enemies wanted John in a pyre.

No telling where Sherlock was. No way of knowing if John were just bait or somehow intended as a savior. Had they gotten Sherlock too? Was he nearby, similarly dazed and uncoordinated under a stack of wood? Did he need help as much as John did? Not knowing never sat well with him, though it did do wonders for his resolve. John tried to move, tried to speak, was almost certain the dull roar in his ears was signs of life and not just echoes from a distance broadcast to his locale. His body would not move, though. When it did, it did not obey the pull of muscles but instead jerked and rolled, catching on only the most desperate of motions as coordination still seemed hours from his grasp. He didn’t have hours. Sherlock might need him, might be in danger, might be waiting for him to rise up as he had done, like a phoenix, born of flame. 

Or maybe he wasn’t there. Maybe he wasn’t coming. Maybe he didn’t even know how much he was needed at his side.

John had waited too long and in the end, someone took their choices from them. Again. 

No, the universe wasn’t lazy. But he could argue it certainly seemed cruel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by [sherri-3](http://sherri-3.tumblr.com/). Original post [here](http://nikoford.tumblr.com/post/87196493432/prompt-inside-john-watsons-mind-inside-the-guy-fox).


	3. The Encounter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Encounter with Donovan after Reichenbach?

It wasn’t that Greg was intentionally trying to keep them apart. It was fire and oil, though—Sally and Sherlock. It wouldn’t do anyone any good to have to two in the same room let alone on the same case. There were always other things she could be working on. Police work. Important work. There wasn’t a reason to push them towards confrontation, which is what it would be. Sherlock thought Sally was an idiot and Sally felt no remorse. Best not to force it or help it along. They didn’t, strictly speaking, work together anyway. Sherlock wasn’t allowed on cases—not like he used to be. If she ever wanted to see him, she knew, same as all of London, where to find him. So Greg never felt a need to have her on the one-offs that brought in Sherlock Holmes after everyone else had had their go. Protocol and regulations, after all. Such things would have saved them all back then. 

All evidence had pointed to Sherlock at the time. There was no faulting her police work. Sally had made the logical conclusion and bringing Sherlock in for questioning had been exactly the right action given the circumstances. Greg had thought so then and still believed it to be so now. Asking Sherlock to come in for questioning was the only way for him to prove he wasn’t behind it. And as much as Greg felt sure he knew the other man, he’d always held some reservations that he _really_ did. He knew he was brilliant, socially unsound, and had a questionable past with drug usage. Even as a simple summation, that really did cover all the bases. Everything else about Sherlock was unknown, like a secret identity except not at all secret, just undiscovered. Greg never believed he was capable of harming anyone, certainly not those children, but there was every reason to make him answerable to the questions they had. Sally hadn’t been wrong; like him she had only been doing her job with the best of intentions. It wasn’t personal for her in the way it was for Phillip—Sherlock’s forensic capabilities were always a slight to the work he professionally did, always better and impressively precise. Idolatry takes on all kinds of manifestations and jealous hatred isn’t considered rare. Sally, though, didn’t care for Sherlock because he was an arse who treated her brothers and sisters in arms with contempt, seemingly looking down on the very people who devoted their lives in service to the public where for Sherlock is was all fun and games. She hadn’t been wrong to seek his arrest, not with all the evidence at hand. There was no expectation that she should apologize, no reason to consider it wise. 

And Sherlock…. well, who really knew. He seemed to have expected it all, seemed to have understood how the pieces in the game would move and that Sally had been in play. It wasn’t an act of betrayal, something shockingly obscene that challenged their relationship and entire history. It was math, an exact science, it was one plus one sort of simple logic that said these are the clues, this is the bias, and here’s the resulting conclusion. Sally played her part in the Moriarty scheme, whether controlled by the Holmes team or the master criminal himself. So had Greg. They didn’t talk about it, honestly. It was a long time ago.

Even though he was not intentionally trying to keep them apart, it was still somewhat dreadful to walk into work to find Sherlock standing inside his office with Sally facing into the room, leaning casually in the door frame with arms crossed over her chest. The anxious feeling in his stomach made him ignore the coffee station as he made hastened steps towards the pair, reading body language as well as he could with Sally’s back facing him.

“--to show us how it’s done again, have you?” he heard her say, her fingers tapping against her own ribs in their crossed posture over her chest.

Sherlock’s fake smile was taut but there was still a flash of something bright in his eyes. “I wouldn’t have to if you lot could manage to do the job right.”

Sally’s hair bounced with a shake of her head, her body standing straight as though she could feel Greg approaching. “Oh, I see. Humble as ever. You know what the difference is between prostitution and promiscuity, don’t you?” she asked, the hint of a laugh in her voice as she turned away, nodding to Greg in greeting as she paced towards her waiting desk.

Greg all but scratched his neck at that, ducking into his office and closing the door least someone else take up the opportunity to be a bother with Sherlock standing there.

“Maybe she has a point,” Sherlock mused, helping himself to Greg’s chair with a flourish of his coat as he rounded the table. “Maybe I should be getting paid.”

Greg paused then let his lips melt into a relieved smile. Some things didn’t need to change to be better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt via [renadolce](http://renadolce.tumblr.com/). Originally posted [here](http://nikoford.tumblr.com/post/87219096072/prompt-encounter-with-donovan-after-reichenbach).


	4. On Holiday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Vacation getaway. Like, dragging Sherlock off to relax, and he actually enjoys it. Not that he’d let on, of course, but John would know. :)

Friday night there would be salsa dancing and John, while not possessing two left feet, did not in fact believe that hips were supposed to move like that by themselves let alone to the accompaniment of choreographed steps. He’d enjoyed the sand and sun on the Spanish beaches and the siestas spent spooned under a fan in their holiday abode. He’d taken very well to the food and the late-night parties and had to hand it to the Spanish for making very beautiful women. Everything about the holiday abroad had been a well-earned and necessary reprieve—excepting, of course, the salsa dancing which would be unavoidable to the last. Because Sherlock, even if he didn’t say so, wanted to do it, and in the end that was more than enough reason for John.

They’d seen the flyer on the notice board while returning to the beach after a nap and another bottle of wine. It was a touristy thing, one of those cultural draws meant to pull in the Americans with itineraries and cash; Salsa dancing taught by beautiful instructors who would undoubtedly place their hands on their students’ bodies to guide their hips with professional flirtation that would throw jealousy into the passion of the dance. It was miles away from John’s idea of a relaxing holiday. It required obnoxiously repetitious counting, a lot of looking down while being told to look up, and the irritating question of which one of them would learn to lead. But Sherlock had stood still long enough to read the whole flyer, standing back a few paces from John who had glimpsed and continued, having now to wait for his partner to rejoin him. It was as close to saying he’d like to do it as words would ever be. So of course they had to do it now. Sherlock was interested. Hell, the man had probably even hypothetically picked out the exact clothing he would wear.

It wasn’t as though Sherlock hadn’t been enjoying their holiday. He was bored with the sun and a little annoyed with how everything simply closed down in the middle of the day. He was used to a certain amount of hustle that simply did not exist in their sleepy get-away. There was an adjustment period, a precursor to actual enjoyment and relaxation, but he wasn’t constantly complaining about the heat, the sun, or the noise in the middle of the night. Not constantly. He still melted into John’s arms in bed even if it was warm and sunny outside. He just needed a little more coaxing to really loosen up, and watching John look like an absolute tit trying to dance was almost certain to do the job.

“Do you want to wait for dinner until after the dance class?” John asked, lips pressing against the curls along Sherlock’s neck as he continued to rest his head on the pillow post-siesta.

Sherlock’s stillness meant the gears were turning, connections quietly being made. “The Salsa lessons at the resort hall?” he asked, his specificity its own admission.

John nodded, scooting closer till his cheek rested beside his ear. “I was thinking after your feet have been sufficiently squished under my soles, we’d have a nice supper on a balcony somewhere that you can deduce to have the finest paella.”

The detective’s chuckle was felt like a rumble under John’s hand as it remained still wrapped around his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by [anyawen](http://anyawen.tumblr.com/). Originally posted [here](http://nikoford.tumblr.com/post/87610222007/prompt-on-holiday).


	5. A Star Named Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Sherlock doesn't know anything about astronomy. John gets a star named after Sherlock, for his birthday.

It was stupid. Absolutely ridiculous. There was being romantic and hopelessly sentimental, and then there was naming a star after your lover. And not just looking up and saying “yeah, that one’s called Sherlock’, but actually having the scientific community sign off on it and say “sure, that one’s called Sherlock’. What a waste of time, money, and academia. From now on, whenever someone wanted to mention star HR 5061, there would be a footnote stating that the star’s recognize name was also Sherlock as though it bore mentioning. Actually, it probably wouldn’t. In all likelihood, the piece of paper that said its name was Sherlock was identical to almost every other star purchase with only the name bit personalized for the gullible buyer. HR 5061 was probably known by many non-scientific names: Scarlett, Jill, Amber—all female names just based on the general lean towards vanity such a purchase would require in its appeal. It was certainly why John had done it, though there was a hint of teasing in the fact that it was an astrological body which drew back fond memories of arguments past.

“Was there really nothing better you could do with your money?” he asked, trying not to wrinkle his nose but finding the motion habitual when taking a tone of disdain.

John flexed his newspaper from his armchair, crossed foot tapping in the air. “Stop trying to pretend you’re not flattered.”

“Flattered?” Sherlock repeated, holding up the certificate in one hand. “John, you could have designed and printed this out yourself and it would have the same scientific merit. No one cares that there’s a star named after me. No one is even going to know unless it blows up and threatens our society, by which time they will have considered your measly expense to name it not worth the effort to recognize as they rename is something far more grandiose and deserving of the apocalypse-bringing celestial catalyst.”

“Don’t like it then,” the voice from behind the paper inquired.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose again, eying the paper with practical dismay as he sighed and paced to the fireplace. “Well it’s not as though you can just take it back. I may as well pretend to like it since the deed is done.”

“Should you, now?”

“It’s only fair, I suppose,” he offered, stabbing it into the wall on the edge of a knife beside the mirror and a hand of playing cards. A star named Sherlock. Of all the sentimental nonsense.

“Don’t suppose you read the part where it’s a twin star,” John purposed. “Would you happen to care to know I put in to have the other star named as well?”

Sherlock paused, eying the words he’d ignored before as they suddenly added that level of sentimentality that actually did ping quite cleverly amongst his romantic radar.

“Can’t have one without the other,” John confirmed, peeking around the corner of his paper. “Happy Birthday, you git,” he said, hairline drawn down as he eyed him with know-it-all spite.

Sherlock smiled just slightly, and messed his hair beneath his palm as he strode to the kitchen to make them some tea in the spirit of sentimental giving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by [sherri-3](http://sherri-3.tumblr.com/). Originally posted [here](http://nikoford.tumblr.com/post/87623115597/sherlock-doesnt-know-anything-about-astronomy-john).


	6. Whoops

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: john walking in on sherlock while he's getting dressed in the bathroom?

Well, there was a sight he didn’t often see. Two smooth, shiny globes of an arse fresh from the shower, a lightly haired crevice with the definite shadow of a puckered hole within it, and right between the parted thighs the hanging sack of another man’s scrotum. Definitely not the usual start to the morning but somehow, living with Sherlock, the unexpected was par for the course. It still wasn’t normal by even those loose restrictions that he got a rather detailed view of his friend’s undercarriage that left nothing to the imagination—though, truth be told, it was rather a nicer sight that he’d have imagined if given to such a compulsion. It wasn’t overly hairy nor unnaturally smooth. Just… nice. Yes, it was a nice arse and the other bits weren’t a detraction from it either. So good to be able to have an aesthetic appreciation for ones’ best friend’s arse. Yep.

Now if only he could remember just how long he’d been standing there or how long he’d been doing so in complete and utter silence.

Standing up slowly, pulling his pants on as he did, Sherlock looked at John over his shoulder with one brow raised, questioning his unannounced arrival as much as his continued stance guarding the door. A purple thong. Well, that explained why he never had a pants line in those trousers of his. Not that he’d been looking for one but John supposed on some level he’d noticed what wasn’t there to be noticed. And purple? That was… nice? John knew he’d seen shirts that same color hanging in Sherlock’s wardrobe. If the man was planning to match his pants to his button down, John was going to perhaps have to take a moment to… something. Something stupid. Forget it.

“Something the matter?” Sherlock asked, rubbing the towel against his black curls—the ones on his head, in case anyone was confused….

John cleared his throat. The shower was making the room far too humid. Far too hot. “Uh.. your phone. You’ve, uh… got a message from Lestrade,” he managed. Really, was it just him, or was it really rather stifling in the bathroom?

Sherlock’s eyes lit up, a smile creasing his eyes. “Where is it?” he asked, all but ready to walk out into the hallway to fetch it if John hadn’t the forethought to bring it forth.

He did—thank god, he did—and he held it out for Sherlock to take as the other man let the towel fall to the floor and proceeded to read his texts in not but his pants. Which weren’t the most modest of attire. More or a sling, really, and the moisture from the shower wasn’t helping anything among the silky material. Hello, all of Sherlock’s bits. Nice to see you. Dear god, he’s staring, isn’t he?

John looked back up perhaps a bit too quickly, his chin jerking just a tad too much like a jolt. Sherlock was still looking at his mobile but a quick glance up at the rush of movement in his line of sight had that one brow arched again even as his lips played loosely with a smile.

“Tell him we’ll be right in,” he said, pushing his phone back towards John. “I’ll just be a minute.”

John nodded, his tongue still faltering over basic speech as he felt his face grow warm in the undercurrents of conversation. “Right. I’ll text him. You just… yeah.”

Sliding the all but translucent door to his bedroom closed behind him, Sherlock’s left arsecheek seemed to wink with a flexing of its singular globe before the man headed off to the wardrobe inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by [holmosexuality](http://holmosexuality.tumblr.com/). Original post [here](http://nikoford.tumblr.com/post/87632772362/prompt-john-walking-in-on-sherlock-while-hes-getting).


	7. Whoops Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please do a followup to John walking in on sherlock in the bathroom.

Sherlock wore a coal grey shirt—not purple as John had considered a possibility. It didn’t make the purple thong disappear from his mind, however. If anything, it made is more pronounced. Dark hair, dark shirt, dark jacket and trousers and under it all, not leaving a single line to tell the tale, were a pair of purple silk pants he had no reason to be acquainted with. Furthermore, he had no reason to be acquainted with the cleft the thin string fell into nor the exact shape of the cheeks that rounded out on either side. No man with such a linear silhouette deserved an arse that gave such a curve to his profile. John was really far too knowledgeable about all manner of details underneath his best friend’s trousers. The only thing he really hadn’t had that grand a view of his was his cock and had he really just describe the view as ‘grand’? Dear lord. Though, honestly, the cling of silk fabric hadn’t exactly lent itself to modesty. He may as well have seen it for all the definition taut silk betrayed. Pretty sure he could make out the folds of foreskin, really, and oh Christ he had been staring, hadn’t he?

What was made worse was that he was still staring. There was nothing to see, Sherlock’s trousers were well tailored unlike his button downs and did not strain against certain movements—though bending down or raising one leg gave the normal expectations of trouser formage against the aforementioned ample arse. There was no reason to stare, though. Nothing was going to happen that he’d miss if he happened to look away. The trousers weren’t going to rip right down the center seam to give another quick view of that purple line of silk fabric running up his crease. They weren’t going to fall aside because he’d bent over too deeply and leave him entirely exposed save for the minimal coverage granted around back. He wasn’t going to see a purple package carefully suspended between the pale thighs, tucked and secured like a silken parcel waiting to be unwrapped. It wasn’t going to happen. Not in a million years. Even the Hulk managed to keep his trousers on, after all. If a green-skinned mutant man powered by gamma radiation could retain his modesty, surely so would Sherlock Holmes.

That purple pocket of silk looked very secure, though. John could probably push the string in the back aside without disrupting the goods beneath, fingers running down the vacant path to the place he was only marginally sure he’d seen, the pucker of skin a mesmerizing texture under the pads of his wandering fingers. That would be something. He wondered if Sherlock would pull away in shock or tease back against him in invitation. He liked the idea of him knowing what he wanted—not that John’d entertained such thoughts before. Or that he was doing so now. But, hypothetically, if he were to imagine engaging Sherlock in some manner of intimacy, there was something to be said for an assertive knowledge of Sherlock’s own pleasure and a greediness to pursue it, ask for it, demand it with wanton behavior. Hypothetically. Without, you know… having given it any real pause for thought.

And, hypothetically, if Sherlock were to be straddling his thigh as John massaged against the ring of sensitive flesh, bottle of lubrication coming in from somewhere in that clever dreamlike way, and the detective were to rub his silk-covered package against his thigh as he rutted impatiently, moaning with abandon, ordering John into action with every breath that echoed his name—

—oh fuck!

“Something the matter?” Sherlock asked, looking at John as though he’d grown three heads as he paused on the stairs to their flat.

John held on tightly to the railing, trying to keep his posture leaning well forward to disguise the tenting in his trousers and the dampness that was certainly only pre-ejaculate but spreading none the less. “Fine,” John choked, wanting nothing more than for Sherlock to finish going up the stairs so he could round the bend and hurry up to his own room with haste. “Just… cramp.”

With a cynical arch of his brow, Sherlock shrugged off his behavior and continued upwards, every step switching which side of his trousers was drawn tighter over his arse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by [Lonewolfe001](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lonewolfe001/pseuds/Lonewolfe001). Originally posted [here](http://nikoford.tumblr.com/post/87707486987/please-do-a-followup-to-john-walking-in-on-sherlock-in).


	8. Taste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: John: “Did you really just taste that?”

“Did you really just taste that?” John asked, not doing very well to hide his own not-so-mild disgust.

Sherlock looked up from the shirt he held in his hands, a quizzical look on his face that betrayed confusion above all else. “It’s an aquarium, John,” he needlessly pointed out, dropping the shirt back down in a pile. “Salt content makes determining sweat from sea water by smell slightly less effective than by taste.”

John held himself back as he eyed the discarded shirt. “And?”

“Definitely sweat.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” John exclaimed, taking a step back in revulsion to know Sherlock had just stuck someone’s sweaty shirt in his mouth. He’d watched the man do a great many things but this—this was a new low. This was going to be the thing he thought about before bed while he brushed his teeth and the thing he thought about every time Sherlock offered him a sip of his drink or a bite of his now-neglected sandwich. Sherlock was now officially a sweat-sucker and nothing was going to get that idea out of his head save for something even more terrible than that.

Sherlock’s eye-roll was a thing of legend as he let exasperation all but mutate him into its incarnate. “Oh, don’t act like you haven’t put worse in your mouth,” he griped, ignoring the presence of Lestrade as easily as John had as they continued their tour around the crime scene.

“You sucked sweat out of a dead man’s shirt,” John defended.

“He wasn’t dead at the time,” Sherlock countered with ease. “Besides, given the number of women you’ve gone down on, do you really think you’re one to judge on what I put my mouth on?”

It was a little harder to ignore the presence of other people with that statement so loudly proclaimed. John did his best not to color but felt his ears growing hot none the less. He wasn’t going to even pretend to care about the natural progression of the argument which would include definitions of normal fluid ingestion and tongue exploration. He was ejecting himself from the conversation as fast as he could, not to look back, forget he said anything at all.

“Maybe see if he’s got some mouthwash in the bathroom.” he said, clearing his throat and hoping Sherlock would agree to just drop it from here.

Surprisingly, the detective pulled a toothbrush from his coat pocket, wiggling it tellingly in the air. “Please, I’m going to need to scrub my tongue after that,” he proclaimed, his nose wrinkling in disgust as he dropped all airs and spun his way around the trashed room and towards a much needed sink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by [thescienceofjohnlock-otherblog](http://thescienceofjohnlock-otherblog.tumblr.com/). Originally posted [here](http://nikoford.tumblr.com/post/87731121417/prompt-did-you-really-just-taste-that).


	9. The Elephant in the Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: After Sherlock makes his best man speech, John gets up to hug him but Sherlock thought he was supposed to kiss him because that’s what the maid of honor did to marry so he plants one on John in front of everyone and John is very confused

He hadn’t meant to do it. Not really. John stood up, John opened his arms to him, John moved in close with his hand set at the back of Sherlock’s neck, dragging him down, pulling him in. He’d meant to find his cheek, he supposed. That was the proper place for a friendly kiss. He’d meant to and then just sort of… missed. Easy mistake. John’s head had turned and Sherlock hadn’t had time to adjust for the new trajectory. John’s hand at his neck made such adjustments a trial. He’d meant it to be friendly. It was supposed to be a simple gesture of affection not unlike Janine’s tearful peck shared with Mary. Just an expression of happiness and of hope, a tiny invocation of blessings wished on him and his. It was only supposed to be a friendly, heart-felt but not heart-exposing kiss. But it fell just a couple inches to left, not against the shaved cheek that still smelled of aftershave and the bite of cologne but against the thin lips that beckoned him closer and promised he hadn’t gotten it wrong. Too quickly spoken. He had gotten it wrong, perhaps not before but certainly now. Why else would John have recoiled so, arms that so recently heralded him in sent to press him further at bay?

John had a knack for overreaction. His response to Sherlock’s resurrection had been to strangle him back towards the grave. It wasn’t really all that surprising that a kiss should end in Sherlock falling head over heels. John’s knack for overreaction seemed to favor inverse displays. He was going to kill Sherlock because he wasn’t dead—now Sherlock was falling because he’d already fallen and in both cases the reason and subject were John. It wouldn’t do to make even more of a mess. Best not to try and grab on to Janine’s chair to save himself from collapse. Luckily she seemed to be leaning far away to avoid just such an action herself. That was fine—she couldn’t save him anyway. They’d discussed as much, more or less, in some respect. There was a vacancy that she couldn’t fill—that no one could. Not a one except for the one. And he too, with hands drawn back, had moved aside to watch him, not save him, with eyes drawn narrow in confusion in their darkened display.

He supposed he had just told the entire room of attendees that he loved John. And he had just kissed his lips in front of the gathered crowd as a bride should kiss her groom. Saying he hadn’t meant to only helped matters if it nullified his motive. But he’d said love amongst a million praises and touched his lips on the whisper of comfort that stood to praise him in return for bringing tears to the eyes of the man who did so well to hide it all. No one was fooled. Not even John—not anymore. He’d risen to give Sherlock the tiniest bit of a reciprocated display and Sherlock had taken that inch and created a mile that snapped back like rubber, jerking him away. Pushing him away. Sherlock did not bother to raise a hand to him to stop his fall. John’s hands were held as to be visible to everyone and show by demonstration how obviously repulsed, how sacredly dismayed he was to be kissed by another on his wedding day, revulsion added because he was a man.

The floor was certainly a long time in coming. Tall people problems. He’d fall on his arse and roll back to save his skull, legs bent to not upset the chairs or table. He’d upset enough. He’d have to get up quickly, of course. Staying down would hint at guilt or remorse while jumping straight up would allow him to pull a face for the crowd as he set his tuxedo straight. Probably a joke would be needed, something slightly demeaning of John that would take the edge off the context within which the kiss was shared. ‘ _Sorry, John, I don’t go in for married men. Better keep an eye on him, Mary_.' That would do. Give John something to react to. He could sputter and spurn Sherlock's slight with a grimace as they both wiped their lips like children. That would save face. People could question who it was who kissed whom, join in the joke, understand it all to be a mistake. They'd laugh and laugh and laugh at the very idea that John would ever want Sherlock. How absurd. How painfully, utterly, bitterly wrong. John didn't love Sherlock like that. This was his wedding day after all; the day he pledged his undying love for Mary Morstan, forsaking all others, till death did they part.

Maybe somewhere amidst their laughter, John would forget to be mad. Forget the embarrassment of the kiss and believe in the absurdity of the mistake. Such an easy thing to do, really. Why should anyone love Sherlock Holmes? That was the moral of the story, wasn’t it? Sherlock was only worth what treasures John bestowed him. Now John had Mary. Now Sherlock had nothing. Now Sherlock _was_ nothing. Not even worth the hands that had held him so briefly as to be a dream.

He hit the floor, he rolled, he bounced up with animation in his leap. It was all an act, put on a good show, smile, laugh, tease, wink and move on. Today, anyway, that was how the story would go. The story of John and Mary, their love, and maybe somewhere in the tale a footnote named Sherlock that boasted of the jester’s defeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Promp by [holmosexuality](http://holmosexuality.tumblr.com/). Originally posted [here](http://nikoford.tumblr.com/post/87739206002/prompt-the-elephant-in-the-room).


	10. Mission Irresistible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Mycroft takes John out on a small mission or something, Sherlock, intrigued and a little jealous, follows them but gets caught.

Mycroft took John. Not Sherlock—John. It meant the mission was of an emotional matter he did not trust Sherlock to understand. He trusted John, though. John was normal. John wouldn’t inadvertently fuck it all up with a missed deduction on the human side of illogical fact. John understood people. So did Mycroft. Sherlock was teaching John to be more observant and now Mycroft was requesting John in his stead. Well, best of luck to both of them. He was sure they’d be very happy solving all the Queen’s problems with adherence to all that pointless pomp and circumstance. Really, it had been only a matter of time considering how much John cared about patriotism and all the other little things that made Mycroft’s head as big as his belly. So good he could set the two of them up. He was sure they’d be very happy. Very happy. Perhaps John could even expect to be getting his own stationary. Lord knew correspondence through typing took an age.

Really, Sherlock knew he should be quite happy Mycroft took John. It was probably a three if it only required the minimal talents of John Watson. Not worth the effort. Not worth his time at all. Though it had been Mycroft who asked, so it mattered in some way. A five then? Mycroft was actually doing a bit of leg work though. Surely nothing short of a ten if it had come to that. But it hadn’t come to involving Sherlock. Sherlock was really quite excellent with tens. Marvelous, honestly. He was amazing with a ten and as long as John was there, he wasn’t nearly as likely to say or do something completely taboo under normal social graces. He’d really come rather a long way, he thought. John said so. Well, he didn’t actually say as much but Sherlock hadn’t gotten nearly as many ‘bit not good’ remarks as he used to, non-verbal cues included. It really should have been a John and Sherlock case, not John and Mycroft.

As far as Sherlock was concerned, it was a John and Sherlock case. And so long as he kept his head down and remained several paces behind, neither John nor Mycroft need know about it. The location was certainly a strange one. One of those shopping centers John had once dragged him to that had been an exercise in patience requiring a willing disbelief in style. Murder in the food court, perhaps? Incident in a changing room? It was hard to see where Queen and Country fit in but the public location and his selection in John over Sherlock was beginning to make more sense. Sherlock in general was far too recognizable without a disguise where John blended in with a crowd naturally. Something really quite sensitive, then. Something very much out of the box. He really couldn’t wait until they got where they were ultimately going to see how the puzzle was formed from all these pieces.

It was rather surprising to watch the two men turn into one of John’s favorite shops—Sherlock recognized the name from his jumper labels. What exactly were the odds that it was a coincidence? Why would it matter in the likely scheme of things involving dignitaries and the secret service? And why was John handing Mycroft a small stack of bank notes and gesturing for Sherlock to come over?

Damn.

“So good of you to join us,” Mycroft said, placing John’s money into his wallet and slipping the thin leather booklet back into his breast pocket. John looked far from pleased but more exasperated than irate. Lost bet? Placed on what, Sherlock’s arrival? John really should have known better than to bet against such odds.

“What’s this about?” Sherlock asked, eyes still searching the crowd for a hint of distress that might point to the location of their case.

Mycroft smiled, far too full of himself, looking as pleased as a fat cat on a Tuesday. “Well, I knew you wouldn’t come to the shops if I asked—you hate shopping. So I had to take… precautions.”

“You took John,” Sherlock corrected, suddenly very bored and sharing in John’s continued displeasure.

“A necessary step in the process.” Mycroft continued to smile, just so damn proud of his success. Utterly irritating. “John makes for excellent bait when trying to lure out the illusive Sherlock Holmes,” he said, looking down at his umbrella handle. “He also doubles as a… consultant, if you will.”

“Yeah, not entirely flattered I remind you of your dad.”

“Father?” Sherlock repeated, brows furrowed. “Oh, god, it’s not, is it?”

“If by that you mean it’s not his birthday then I’m afraid you’re quite mistaken. It is, in fact, and I intend to actually provided something he might enjoy this year, to which John should prove to be an invaluable source of input.”

John all but rolled his eyes as he sank back on his heels, hands deep in his pockets as he frowned at the implications he were akin to an old man. Sherlock thought the grey in his hair was actually quite charming. He wasn’t old. He was just… similar to his pensioner father in certain ways. Mycroft’s logic was, as was far too often the case, quite spot on.

Still, Mycroft couldn’t be allowed the battle as well as the war. “We’re not getting him a jumper,” Sherlock insisted, steering John back towards the halls of storefronts towards the electronics booth.

John did not seem to care very much for being bodily driven around. “Sherlock, you know how I feel about gadgets,” he argued, then after a short pause gave a groan. “Oh, god, I am an old man,” he moaned, face in his hands with implicit trust in Sherlock not to steer him into anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by [renadolce](http://renadolce.tumblr.com/). Originally posted [here](http://nikoford.tumblr.com/post/87892615192/prompt-mission-irresistible).


	11. The Guardians

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: mycroft dies and in his will, chooses sherlock and John to be the guardians of his 8 year old daughter Aberdeen (John calls her Abba for short lol)

He could have left her to anyone. Mrs. and Mr. Holmes were the first to come to mind. They were old but hardly infirm and had the sort of ‘sitting down’ type lifestyle that was good for little kids. They could watch over her and see to it that she got the best education, tell her warm stories about her father, and give her three square meals a day. They knew all about raising children—they’d raised three with great success. Age aside, they were surely the best option. So why was John left with adoption papers left to sign?

He hadn’t known about Abba at all until she was five. Christmas 2018 with the Holmes brood and a plus one for Mycroft that had blindsided him and Sherlock both. There had never been a conversation about surrogates and progeny as far as John could remember. They’d given up on Sherlock, that much he did recall, but he supposed he always imagined the next generation of Holmes’ to start with wedding bells before the rattle, some sort of nuptials taking place between Mycroft and his beloved to mark the dawning of a new age. He supposed he’d forgotten who exactly it was he’d been thinking about. Mycroft didn’t have time for the necessary social engagements that lead up to marriage vows and couldn’t even stomach most of the population as mere acquaintances. Of course he’d been practical about it. What other way of living did he know? Which was why there was Aberdeen, the governess, and a five year old surprise when she was big enough for him to handle with not much more than his own mother’s advice. She was eight now and bigger every time John saw her. Her father, however, would from now on never age. And the burden of her care now fell to them.

He didn’t want it to be, but it was, fundamentally, a burden. They hadn’t expected this. Sherlock’s job was still very much a spontaneous thing that borne them on unpredictable winds of chaos. And John was right there with them. They had caustic substances in the flat and John owned a gun both he and Sherlock were at times remiss in properly stowing away. There were always strangers in and around 221B, not all of them with the best of intentions. It wasn’t just a matter of clearing the upstairs bedroom to make room for her things. It was an entire about-face in regards to everything about their lives. 

They’d had the talk. Once. Years ago—before the big Christmas reveal. Did they want children? If so, when? Sherlock had been reluctant to change the nature of his career and John agreed as men of action that raising a child would ultimately be a selfish decision when they were so very devoted to other things and gratified by a lifestyle fraught with dangers. So the answer had been a unanimous ‘no’ on their part, with concessions made that should things change, if for instance one of them should find himself injured or paralyzed and requiring a more subdued lifestyle, they might return to the idea of parenthood as a potential avenue for substitute unpredictability and excitement. No one had ever mentioned guardianship over someone else’s child and the sacrifices it would demand. It had been so unlikely as to be completely ignored as even the slightest of possibilities. Mycroft was a selfish arsehole not to have told them, and a worse one for imposing as he had. He supposed no one expected to have a heart attack, presuming to have all the time in the world, but the man hadn’t been so surprised by his own death that he hadn’t provided his wishes following his demise.

Sherlock didn’t get Aberdeen, not outside the line that was drawn between one brother and the other. John got Aberdeen. Mycroft wanted his daughter to be raised by John. Legally it was scripted out through blood but the language that had been separate from that of barristers was hardly vague in its intent. Sherlock was inept, in need of guidance and close observation, and John was asked to be in charge of such lapses in practical knowledge to ensure Abba survived long enough for boarding school. She was his in as much as she would be theirs, with Sherlock already written off as useless. Astronomy, politics, pop culture, and parenting. Sherlock would want to prove him wrong, obviously. Reverse psychology worked well between the two. Just one last dick move from the British Government that almost certainly kept Sherlock safe in his brother’s absence while in the same move providing for all his kin. 

No. John was sure it was a lovely idea on paper, but neither he nor Sherlock were ready to settle down just yet. He loved Abba, she was a sweet little girl, but there was simply no room in their lives.

“She doesn’t need to know we said no,” Sherlock said, leaning against their kitchen table, reading in the lines of John’s face the conversation they didn’t need to have.

John nodded, leaning over and kissing his lips. “We’ll still see her at Christmas,” he offered in condolence to a dead man’s wish, as he took up his phone and dialed for Mummy Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by [holmosexuality](http://holmosexuality.tumblr.com/). Originally posted [here](http://nikoford.tumblr.com/post/87918264297/prompt-mycroft-dies-and-in-his-will-chooses-sherlock).


	12. Stairway to Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not exactly a prompt fill. Got bored and spent some time on the crack tumblr [sherlockspinkbutthole](http://sherlockspinkbutthole.tumblr.com/) (which is hilarious) and decided to write a short, porny ficlet in the character restrictions of the ask box keeping with the theme of the blog. So OOC-ness abounds but, whatever, it was fun.

1) Sherlock and John generally have sex in John's room because it's a greater distance from Mrs. Hudson's earshot. While practical, it has resulted in almost automatic arousal for Sherlock when he takes the second flight of stairs because there is hardly ever another reason for him to take them. This has caused a handful of issues when following John up stairs at crime scenes. Sherlock's subconscious sexual appetite is a huge turn on for John. Luckily, most crime scenes have bathrooms with locks.

2) The fact that John has started to bring lubricant with him to crime scenes just in case has made it very easy for Sherlock to act on his desires without cause for shame or confusion. With the NSY kicked out and the door to the bathroom locked, Sherlock can drag John away by his coat collar and shove him against the wall, hands making quick work of the man's trousers and pants as he shoves them both down his thighs while John eagerly tangles his hands in his curls, pulling his face close to kiss. 

3) There's no need for foreplay--there will be postplay. There will be the sly attempts to hide their sated faces and shared amusement at their indiscretions in so in appropriate a place. There are only a few long, heated kisses shared before both of them have their trousers down, Sherlock's resting on the tile floor at his ankles as he turns and grabs the sink, preferring to watch John through the mirror as he gropes his bare arse, palms heavy against the mounds of flesh as he parts them hungrily. 

4) John licks his lips, his every expression in full display to Sherlock in the mirror. The way his head tilts as he looks at him with appreciation and wonder, the way his eyes become those of a predator eying his prey, the complete, animalistic desire that requires him to all but grunt as he gives Sherlock's arse a squeeze, fingers digging into his hips. John's lust is strengthened by his love but this is no time for 'I love you's--it's obvious anyway. Now is the time for fucking. 

5) Sherlock loves to watch John rip the lube packet open with his teeth, both rugged and practical. He loves the feel of it when John pours it out along his lower back, letting it drip along his crack, warming itself against his skin as John rolls fingers through it, helping it along, and following the trails between the globes of his arse to rub the silken liquid against the pucker of his hole, teasing once, twice, and then not at all as his finger breaches and strokes within, strong and insistent 

6) Sherlock watches John's teeth bite against his own bottom lip, the arch of his brows that says how much he wants him, how much he needs him, how much he loves him and that this is now theirs to share with each other. Bodies, heat, their actions a confession of things that still seem more real when unspoken. John's body is the prodigy to Sherlock's instrument. His finger sends a roll of pleasure down Sherlock's spine as he pushes back against it, with it, a single cord desiring the melody. 

7) They can't be discrete if Sherlock can't walk straight after but it is so tempting to John to leave the preparation at a single digit and lubricant, to work through the stretch around his cock instead, to watch Sherlock's face in the mirror as well as he all but gags on his cries of confused discomfort clouded in the fog of pleasure. So tempting to strut behind him back down those stairs where NSY is waiting with Sherlock's careful steps assuring that they all know. So very, very tempting. 

8) It's not worth only a moment's smugness is the only reason John presses into his lover with a second finger instead, a smirk pulling at his face at the fantasy all the same. Not that he doesn't love this; the feel of Sherlock's body both resisting and accepting him, the texture of his hole and internal walls that are often overlooked when explored by his cock which is far more concerned with matters of friction and currently making demands as he twists and scissors, eager to proceed. 

9) Sherlock grinds down against his fingers, wanting to move on, enjoying the sensations but needing so much more and aware their time is limited and short. There's a case to solve and every reason to have ignored base desire--every reason which he himself ignored in favor of a quick shag. It's John's fault. John and his ridiculous swaggering step and incomprehensibly strong presence of masculinity. How could anyone keep their pants on when faced with mobile sex like him? And he was all his. 

10) Sherlock lets John know when he's had enough, when he's sure he can take him. No words--words are wasted here. He reaches back with one hand and grabs hold of his own arse cheek, helping to keep himself exposed so John can lube up and enter him with one hand to spare. John is easy to read in most situations but is a book laid open with the best bits in highlighter when Sherlock offers himself this way. His grunt is deep in his chest, tongue on his lips again, as John strokes himself slick. 

11) Sherlock keeps his eyes on John's face as his lover finally breaches him with the head of his thick, hot cock. He loves the pleasure he finds in his expressiveness and in the intimacy of looking straight into John's eyes through the reflective glass as he himself is made bare with every hint of pleasure running through him as well. John's first stroke is long and slow, opening Sherlock with precision until he bottoms out, pubes to cheeks, their balls greeting each other with a glancing touch. 

12) Like the starting of a locomotive it begins steady and slow, a driving force weighted in preamble as bodies seek rhythm and find themselves in perfect unity. John's cock finds the perfect motion to make Sherlock's knuckles go white in their grasp on the bathroom sink and his head tilt back in wonton abandon and the engines, now warm, hasten. Slow strokes taken with the extent of his length shorten into forceful juts of precision, building up speed with the same insistence building inside himself 

13) Sherlock knows he must be quiet, they both must be--it's part of the game--but oh it is hard when John is on task. Not every stroke is perfect, John knows Sherlock too well to give him something repetitive. The randomness at which spikes of pleasure burst out from his core make Sherlock lose his mind much quicker, spiral him towards ecstasy with assurance, allowing John to plunder him in short intervals that leave him dizzy and unable to focus on the reflection before him, beautiful and tan. 

14) John can feel Sherlock tightening around him, his whole body growing tense with the uncoordinated effort to either bring it to and end or stop it from every ending. He knows Sherlock is done for when he can no longer see his eyes in the mirror, the detective's face lost in his own experience with John existing as an idea and a memory even as he grips his hips to balance with each thrust, obviously existing in the present moment. The sound of slapping skin in almost louder than their breathing. 

15) Sherlock has only the presence of mind to put his hand between his teeth as a moan becomes much more, the escalation of pleasure reaching a tipping point as his other hand dares to touch himself under the bend of his body. The first stroke is nearly too much, the second is a warning, and the third is made moist as his body shudders into ecstasy, spilling itself into his palm as his teeth imbed themselves into the other on a gasping cry of exquisite completion. 

16) John knows he's talking, knows he's muttering something dirty and proud, but they're not words from his head--not the one on his shoulders. John's tongue slides along praises that come straight from his loins, exalting the beauty of his lover's completion with words he'd be embarrassed to ever hear repeated. His mind is gone though, so completely a part of Sherlock that the sensation of him contracting around him is a phantom embrace across his whole body, urging him to thrust heavy and follow. 

17) Sherlock does his best to wipe the bursts of colors from his eyes in order to watch John but finds his sated body far too heavy to control. Instead there is just the presence of John to indulge in, the hands on his hips, the slap of his body against his arse, the sweet presence of his thick cock inside him, still pleasurable though no longer building towards something blinding. John's last few thrusts are jerky and desperate, fingers tensing on a release that echoes in the bathroom on a moan. 

18) John all but falls forward, still managing to remain standing though his body bows towards Sherlock's where he'd have gladly rested his head. Oh, that was good. They were both very bad people but it was so worth it sometimes to not be good. He takes a minute to breath, certain he just watched his life flash before his eyes and deeply dissatisfied with how little Sherlock there was in it. He needed more, but his erection was spent. At least he knew memories like these would continue to be made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://sherlockspinkbutthole.tumblr.com/post/87103660693/john-all-but-falls-forward-still-managing-to-remain).


	13. Date Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Promp: Analise (from Naked, Stripped and Raw), now 14, introduces her first boyfriend to Sherlock and John.

Sherlock pulled the gun from the tuck of John’s pants in an easy, almost instinctual way as he walked behind him in their bedroom, the ex-soldier still practicing his game face in front of the mirror and nearly too caught up in his head to notice. Nearly, but not effectively. His eyes tracked Sherlock with a slight scowl at the loss of metal against his back. Sherlock couldn’t care less. He opened the sock drawer and deposited the old weapon back into its resting place among tubes of dark cloth without care for approval. This was his veto. Generally they were both allowed at least one, whether it was for a certain tie, a hat, or the one time Sherlock himself had been experimenting with braces.

“I wasn’t going to use it,” John said, as though Sherlock were truly dumb enough to think his spouse would murder a fourteen year old kid. “It’s for intimidation.”

“It’s insulting,” Sherlock clarified with a roll of his eyes as he walked back to the wardrobe to find a suit jacket that would suffice.

John sighed loudly, adjusting his cuffs which had curled under the jumper he’d pulled on, head shaking as his jaw flexed. “It’s not insulting,” he argued. “I was a fourteen year old boy once. I know what they’re like. All it does is send a nice, simple message that if he fucks with our daughter, I will end his life. Besides, the garden could always use some nice compost,” he mused, the fantasy of getting away with murder playing out in the tense muscles of his neck and shoulders. There wasn’t much inherently intimidating in meeting with the village GP and his gardener husband. The gun helped.

Sherlock watched John with tired fascination. At fourteen, Sherlock had been causing fire damage and explaining chemical burns to his family while John had been developing his mating rituals and relieving his tension to the underwear models in sales catalogues in the absence of anything hardcore. They were of completely different backgrounds and understandings of what drove the thoughts and intentions of young men. Honestly, none of that mattered though. They weren’t raising a young man; they were raising a developing woman.

“I didn’t say it was insulting to the suitor,” Sherlock corrected. “It’s insulting to Analise. It says, quite clearly, that you don’t trust her. Without any provocation, you are putting it across that despite all reason you have chosen to believe she is completely incapable of basing her interest in the young man on an informed understanding of his character. You remove all personal agency by implying that she is merely a direct object, something to be acted upon, and not the subject of her new relationship. You are not loaning your daughter to a young man for the night; Analise is going on a date. Show her you trust her, that you respect her, and that you believe in her ability to manage her own affairs and she will not only strive to make you proud but instinctually gravitate towards partners who show her those same levels of trust and respect. So unless the gun was to wave at Analise and explain that you will bury her body in the compost heap if she’s not a virgin on her wedding day, it stays in the sock drawer.”

John looked back at Sherlock in the mirror, some of the tension having drained from his body as his shoulders sank slightly, the tendons in his neck no longer jumping out like tight cords. “Where do you get this stuff?” he asked with his head cocked slightly to the side. “Is it on the inside of tampon boxes or something? Because I’ve read some of your women’s mags and all they ever talk about are fifty ways to please your man, what makes your arse look big, and who’s dating who.”

“Magazines? Oh, no. Those are for completely different types of research,” Sherlock explained, making his way towards the door with a nervous cough. “Actually, I, uh… pose as a fourteen year old girl on a few websites. Very informative. You can learn a lot more through immersion than you can through reflection.”

“ _Jesus Christ_ , you’re going to be arrested.”

“Of course I won’t. I’ve no interest whatsoever in attaining naked photographs and asking to meet up would blow my cover. Really, John, I’m not an idiot. And neither is Analise.” Sherlock paused at the door, smiling softly at John’s defeated posture which said Sherlock had won regardless of how much John wanted to play his part as the terrifying father figure. He was a soft man, now, with grey hair and the threat of jowls. He wanted to go into battle again. But this wasn’t his war.

Sherlock left the door and returned instead to wrap his arms around his husband, cheek pressed to cheek over his shoulder as his arms held tight as they encircled his waist. Always the soldier, always the protector. Everything was meant with the best of intentions but tradition had a way of being wrong. Sherlock kissed his cheek as John relaxed into him, his body no longer as lean as it had once been with comfort setting in as softness in John’s once rigid form.

“There’s wine chilling in the fridge downstairs and after they’ve left, there will be an empty house to enjoy for a few hours,” Sherlock whispered.

John chuckled softly, his arms crossing to hold Sherlock’s. “It’s pronounced ‘arse’,” he corrected.

Sherlock rolled his eyes with a smile as he pulled away. “You’re terrible.”

“I’ve been in the mindset of a horny, fourteen year old boy all day. There’s not exactly a switch to go back to being a mature, romantic grown up.” John turned and caught Sherlock by the waist before he could get away, pulling him in close as he smiled up at him. “However, let the record show that Sherlock Holmes, online teenage girl extraordinaire, is the best husband anyone could hope to be raising their own teenager with. I’d have gone crazy by now if not for you.”

Sherlock smiled as he looped his arms along John’s shoulders. “Well, from what I hear, it gets worse from here on out. Soon you and I become extremely nosy and demonstrate passive aggressive tendencies related to a sense of misguided guardianship that seeks to eliminate all negative experiences by enforcing an ideal at the expense of the individual.”

“Do all fourteen year olds talk like that? I mean, I thought Analise just got that from you.”

“No, it’s basically an extrapolation from several personal accounts I’ve collated.”

John shook his head with a chuckle, leaning up to kiss his lips. “You’re out of your mind. And I love you.”

“How very fortunate for you, then, that I love you too.”

John nodded sagely and kissed him again as Sherlock smiled into their interlocking embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by [renadolce](http://renadolce.tumblr.com/), originally posted [here](http://nikoford.tumblr.com/post/93404989377/prompt-date-night).


	14. Series 3 gap fill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fic prompt: What John and Sherlock got up to when they went back to living together before John "forgave" Mary. Bonus for sexy times?

He watched him. There was little else Sherlock could do. John was angry--not just at Mary or at Sherlock but undoubtedly at himself. He hadn't said so but he didn't need to either. There were empty bottles of beer in the rubbish bin, a half-empty pack cooling in the refrigerator and several bottles of heavy liquor sitting out or in the freezer to chill. Every discarded bottle cap and empty glass were a sentence never spoken. _I hate my life_ , they seemed to say, with all the tact and brilliance of the waste they were. John was eighty-percent loathing and ten-percent grief. That was all--he wasn't a whole person anymore taking refuge at 221B. John Watson was a shell full of intoxicants sitting on the edge of further devastation. So Sherlock watched. He watched incessantly. He watched as the greatest man he'd ever known poisoned himself towards death. 

Sherlock had never before thought about what it must have been like for Mycroft all those times he'd found him high and smelling of piss and vomit on a rat infested mattress on drug den's floor. He had a new appreciation for the specific, nameless pain that accompanied watching someone you love self destruct before your eyes and in spite of your every effort. Not that either Mycroft then nor Sherlock now had much of an idea of how to help. Sherlock had decided on providing a welcoming distance, wanting nothing more than for John to feel cared for but unpressed to speak or seek comfort without specific provocation. Instead John sat in his chair, his cheeks and ears permanently stained red from the flush of alcohol. Sometimes he drank in quiet, seething. Sometimes there was broken glass against the opposite wall. Sometimes he retired, his eyes red and lid heavy with endless sorrow. He never spoke except to himself. Not at those times. At other times he might follow a conversation regarding food, necessities or Sherlock's improving health but they were short exchanges that stayed far from any substance of meaning while a hand brought another kind to his lips.

Sherlock watched him when he pretended to be looking through his microscope. He watched him while he mimed research on his laptop or interest in the paper. He was always watching, even when John was asleep. He didn't trust him, he realized, not to do something foolish. John's trust in others had been broken so many times to such a great depth that there was no longer any reason to assume he himself would not act in a similarly selfish way. He certainly owed nothing to Sherlock who had, until recently, been the worst offender. While Sherlock had played at suicide, John's entire manner read risk from the state of his hair to the creases in his face. Sherlock needed to observe when risk altered its appearance and either climbed away into quiet resolution or fell into utmost certainty. So he watched. Cut back on pain medication to keep alert, used being an invalid to excuse his constant presence in their shared home. He watched and John did not appear to be getting any better. He watched his best friend slowly drowning in his chair.

And yet it was still a surprise to John when he came down mid-morning to find the beer gone. His curious and frustrated rummage through drawers turning up not a drop of either lager or liquor conveyed nothing of the expectation. Sherlock watched quietly from his own chair, waiting to see how long it would take him to notice the note he'd affixed to the milk carton or to take in the kettle sitting still warm on the burner. John's angry grunts and whispered curses quieted for only a moment, the muscles of his back twitching visibly with constraint as he remained ducked in towards the fridge. In twice as many seconds as the breath Sherlock held, he slowly let the fridge door close, something small crumpled up in his hand.

 _Please_ , the note had read. Nothing more, nothing of great substance.

John looked over at Sherlock, his red eyes still burning, as he gave a short but meaningful nod.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> arachnescurse said: Sherlock has been following a duck all day. Watson is going to get down to the bottom of this.

John spent most of his morning making duck puns. It wasn't the most useful thing he'd ever done in his life but, then again, neither was Sherlock's current occupation with trailing one King Eider. It was a hansom duck with a odd shaped head of yellow, green and blue but it was still a duck like any other Gadwall, Mottled or Mallard. And if it seemed that John knew rather a lot about the Anas genus is was only due to the stunning array of titled photographs pinned to their smiling den wall. It wasn't important to a case but, like tobacco ash, seemed to be just another tireless and exhausting study. Sherlock now spent a lot of his time trailing ducks apparently. Looking for a _robber_ ducky perhaps? That was a good one. He'd use that again.

At least Sherlock was doing something other than sitting bored in their shared flat. London was quiet, nothing _fowl_ afoot among the criminal masses. In a way, it made perfect sense why Sherlock would find himself amused by something so _poultry_. It was this or insanity--however close this was to _quacking_ as things stood. Until a case came their way that really fit the _bill_ , though, there wasn't much either could do but follow ducks and consider branching out into puns involving the word Anas. The latter wasn't going to be hard. At all. By any stretch of the imagination.

"Will you _shut up_?" Sherlock groaned, rolling his eyes and moving his head in exaggerated annoyance.

John loved it when he got a rise out of him. He was bored too, after all. He wasn't making stupid puns and following detectives that followed ducks for the excitement or anything. "Sorry," he said, by way or meaning he wasn't sorry at all. "Is it disturbing you or is his highness?" he asked, gesturing to the waddling King Eider that was making his way towards the pond.

Sherlock glared, standing straight, carrying himself with far more pride than your average duck stalker. "No one forced you to come along," he pointed out, though with their history the point was moot.

"I have to come. I brought peas," John explained, holding up the plastic bag in which a separate bag of frozen peas was sweating as it thawed.

Sherlock liked that. John could tell by the small twitch at the corner of his lips. Peas, not bread--John had been paying attention to the articles around their flat. Honestly, one only had to look at a few photographs of Angel Wing to feel like a twat for forty years of ignorance. John opened the bag and pulled out a handful of peas, crushing the frozen clump into unstuck pieces before stepping closer to the pond's edge and letting them fly. They dropped to the water with the sound of raindrops and the ducks scattered at first, then swarmed.

It was a nice day. Peaceful. They were hardly alone with several strangers enjoying their lunch in the park under the bright sun of a warm-weathered day but it felt like a much smaller world than the one they'd passed through on their way. It smelled of rot, a sort of mix of pond scum and bird defecation, but it was still rather lovely regardless. Animals stunk--ask anyone who had ever been to a zoo. As such, nature wasn't always the sort of thing one took in with a lungful of air. John didn't mind a bit of stink. That was London in a fashion. Some things were beautiful to only some of one's senses.

"So, why ducks?" he found himself asking, watching a few African Blacks wade over to the floating peas among the throngs of Northern Pintail. 

Sherlock shrugged, undermining his precision with gestures of indifference. "Migrational birds," he explained. "Distinctive down. More than enough waterways in London to perhaps find use in a full library of behavioral and physical study."

"Right. So you've finished your full catalog of native insects then?"

"Of those known to include decaying matter in their life cycle, yes. It's not quite seasonally appropriate to move on just yet to pollinating ones so I thought a short interlude into avian species would offer some respite."

"So birds and then bees?" John asked with a grin.

Sherlock all but groaned as he gave him a disapproving stare, not at all deaf to the allusion in his words. "As you say."

John chuckled to himself. "Spring must truly be in the air." And it was. There were ducks after all. Ducks and green leaves and a few buds not yet blossoming into flowers. Everything was still very wet and mostly brown or grey, but patches of green and white and blue said so much more was on the way. It was the season of change, of growth, and of opportunity. John liked the spring, but preferred the summer. The damp was just a little too stale. "We going to be here much longer?" he asked, starting to get bored of watching peas bob and disappear into snapping bills.

"You can leave when you like," Sherlock said, his gaze intent upon the feeding colony as well.

John shrugged, letting another handful sail further out so their quarry made chase even if they themselves remained stuck in place. "Yeah, I know, which is why I asked you how long we're staying."

The gears in Sherlock's brain visibly ground to a stop, that stutter of movement and flutter of lashes one of John's all time favorite tells. Sherlock still didn't get it. It still seemed impossible to the genius git that someone, anyone, would want to stay at his side regardless of how mundane the activity. For all his deductive prowess, he still couldn't read into peas rather than bread, remembering the duck's species rather than just calling it a duck, and hours spent researching duck puns just to make sure to remain topical. Coincidences? Not at all. Sherlock was spectacularly ignorant sometimes. 

"Well," Sherlock began, still slightly off from his normal game. "I suppose, I mean, we could maybe see about the ducks in another park."

John shook his head, chucking another handful of peas with a grunt. "I'm surrounded by _anas_ es," he muttered loudly to himself.

Sherlock rolled his eyes again, turning away with a great huff, though on the wind John could definitely hear a chuckle.


End file.
